3. CHAPTER 3
Neely
I doubt I’ll ever get used to having this handsome man around.
He never stays long. He checks the bins, checks the board, checks me. Asks if I need anything, how'd the night go, what’s in store for today? On Thursday, he brought a better lantern for the kiosk and never mentioned it. I found it when it got dark.
That's how he operates, I'm learning. He quietly makes the world a better place when no one is watching. Always serving others. Never taking.
I'm used to being the one who does that. Having it done for me makes me… uncomfortable. Like wearing an itchy wool sweater.
Thursday evening, on my walk-through, I find the problem at site twenty-six.
It's a big group site, with three tents, two trucks, a folding canopy, and a spread across the picnic table sure to attract every raccoon—and maybe the bear—in the area. And it’s obviously been there for hours.
There are several open potato chip bags.
A jar of peanut butter with the knife still in it.
A bottle of huckleberry syrup from the local store. And two coolers on the ground.
The guy at the site’s grill is maybe thirty-five, wearing cargo shorts, and holding a beer and a set of tongs like dual scepters. It’s clear he’s the self-appointed King of the Campsite.
"Evening," I say. "How's everybody settling in here?"
"Living the dream," he says, friendly enough.
"Glad to hear it. It’s a beautiful place to vacation,” I say with a smile before gesturing to the picnic table.
“Not sure if you’ve heard, but there’s been a bear in the area, so I wanted to remind y’all that all this should go in the bear box or your locked vehicles as soon as you finish eating.
Not just the food, but also the coolers, and anything with a smell, such as sunscreen. Nothing should be left out, okay?”
"Yeah, we saw the flyers." His friendly tone of voice is gone. "We're literally eating again in twenty minutes. It's fine."
"Please just make sure it's all packed after each meal."
"Sure," he says, waving his tongs to dismiss me. “See you later.”
I could leave it. Four years of hosting campgrounds has taught me that most people do what you ask, though the stubborn ones wait until you walk away.
But this guy rubs me the wrong way. And it’s not cool to have so much leftover food on the table when there was a bear print seen in the dirt just eight sites away.
"I'm going to need this cleaned up and latched in the box now, actually," I say, keeping it easy. "Coolers, too. The bear's already gotten into two this month."
“I told you, we’re eating soon—”
I raise an eyebrow. “So, the peanut butter and the syrup are for the burgers? Even if they are, someone can pull them back out of the box when the burgers are ready.”
He narrows his eyes. "We paid for this site.”
"You absolutely did, and fortunately, we provide bear-safe food storage for your safety.” I nod at the laminated card stapled to their post. It’s the same card that’s now attached to every post. "If you need help putting things away, I’d be happy to help."
"Look, sweetheart." Sweetheart. Ugh. What a prick. "We've been camping here forever. I know this campground, and if I say it’s fine, it is.”
"That's what the last two people said," a voice says behind me. "They both thought their coolers would keep a bear out. They were wrong, and they lost very expensive coolers. We need to encourage this bear to leave the area—not invite him to a buffet.”
Tate crosses the site at an unhurried walk, and I watch King of the Campsite do the math every man does when Tate Benton enters a space, taking in his height, the badge, and the forearms. Okay, the forearms may just be a me thing. He instantly adopts a more cooperative posture.
Tate comes to a stop half a step behind my shoulder, not in front of me, and says, "My campground host has already told you what needs to happen."
My campground host. There’s nothing unprofessional about the sentiment, and yet he could have said the campground host or your campground host or even just Neely. But Tate said my, and who knew a two-letter word could make a girl’s heart race?
"If a bear comes through tonight because of that peanut butter," Tate goes on, conversational now, "this is how your evening will go: I’ll close this whole loop, and your group is forced to pack up and leave in the dark. Not to mention the citation with a hefty fine that’s guaranteed to ruin your trip. Or you can just put the coolers and the lunch leftovers away, eat your dinner and clean up after, and never have to have another conversation with Neely or me again.”
It takes them six minutes. Tate carries nothing, and neither do I. We stand there while the King of the Campsite calls on his court to help him, and when the latch on the bear box clicks into place, Tate says, "Appreciate it. Enjoy your night.”
Walking back toward the kiosk, I wait for it.
The debrief. The instructions for next time a camper doesn’t listen.
What you should do X and You’d be better off doing Y…
and so on. Every ranger, every manager, every well-meaning man I've ever worked with has these sorts of comments locked, loaded, and ready to go.
Instead, Tate says, "You handled that exactly right. He would have moved everything for you. I just sped things along.”
"You called me your campground host,” I blurt out, emphasizing the your.
He looks over at me, and there's the full smile, finally, the one I've been getting fractions of all week. It was soooo worth the wait.
"You are my campground host," he says. "For fourteen weeks."
When he drives away into the dark, I force myself not to watch his taillights disappear around the bend. It’s good that he’s leaving. Tate Benton makes me feel… confused? Unbalanced? All of the above?
I make my last round at ten. The camp has settled.
Fires die down to orange embers, an owl hoots in the distance, and frogs begin their nighttime lullaby.
When I’m back at the RV, I wash my face, pull on the shirt I sleep in, and write four hundred words of a new novel.
The hero seems to resemble a handsome park ranger…
I push the thought aside and close my laptop.
I'm reaching for the light when I hear a noise outside my camper.
Something moves through the brush behind the host pad. A stick cracks. Then the specific, unmistakable scrape of claws testing the lid of my storage bay.
My RV, my home, which has been my source of freedom for so long, suddenly feels unsafe with its thin walls.
The radio is on the counter, two steps away, the little green light steady in the dark. I take the two steps, and call Channel 3.